Relativity
by BAnder54
Summary: Set in the early days after Pardee, Scott and Johnny learn a few things about each other.


A/N: Thanks to the lovely ladies of WIPLash Too for the first read-over. Your comments made this a stronger piece and after revisions, a bit different piece, too. :D

Relativity

He'd lost track of how many days he'd been in the house. He peeled back the curtain when hoof beats rang against hard-packed earth. The rider was close enough for Johnny to see the hard set to Scott's mouth and the sharp angled face beneath the flat brim of his hat. He sat for a few long minutes then shuffled to the door, muscles tight with disuse, and let himself out.

"Are you coming or goin'?"

Scott stopped, looked up from currying his horse and squinted.

"After today's festivities with what's left of the herd, I have no idea." Sniffing, he dropped the Fitch comb into the bucket beside his heel. "You're up and out. Feeling good?"

"I always feel good," Johnny said, and scratched his ribs as he looked around the courtyard. "Looks better without those bodies layin' around."

The rolling hills seemed to start at the gate and go on forever, but he knew the truth. It started and ended at the big white hacienda. Still here after all these years of wind and rain pulling and pushing at it. Of Pardee and his kind, bloodying up the front door.

"Then, is there someplace you have to be?"

Johnny leaned against the slats of the corral and looked up and down the valley floor. "No, I don't think so."

Before he could switch off his mind, he heard the bullet ping across the courtyard, the too-loud voice of Murdoch, the thumping boot heels. He saw alarm in Scott's eyes when Johnny dropped to his knees. Funny how the well-tended rosebushes smelled violently of summer, stabbing through the ozone of too many spent guns. The newly healed scar at the base of his back tingled.

"Where's the herd at?" Johnny asked all of a sudden, and got a surprised laugh out of Scott. "What's so funny?" He wanted to know.

A sly grin made its way to each ear, the shoulders of that checkered brown shirt shaking. "Nothing. Just not the sort of question I was ready for."

Scott reached for a dandy brush and attacked the dust on his horse's coat with firm brush strokes. It nickered in response.

"You might wanna ease up some. Where's my horse, anyway?"

Scott stopped in mid-swipe, tamping the brush hard against one hand sending dust motes flying every which way. Finally, "He's with Cipriano."

Johnny shrugged, he guessed it didn't matter, either about the bullet wound or the horse. What was…was.

"For exercise only. I think he was tired of the animal kicking its way out of the corral," Scott told him and started to brush again, this time with a lighter hand.

"I can see that all right. Barranca is prime horseflesh."

"A name already?"

"It fits." Johnny moved forward, caught the halter tie. "Now what about this nag?"

"This nag, brother, is built for hardiness not speed. He's seen me through so far."

Despite the mud flecked on Scott's boots that appeared to be a true statement. "I'd of taken you for a man who likes his horse to get' im somewhere fast. And doin' it flashy."

"I've had a few fast horses along the way."

Johnny wondered for a moment. "First horse?"

Scott looked up. "Age five, and it was a pony."

"Six, but it wasn't any pony. Favorite?"

"Easy enough. A campaign horse named Mortimer. A handsome sorrel, eighteen hands high and full of sass."

"There's that flash creeping in again."

"He had an odd habit of rolling over on his back like a dog. Loved his carrots. Yours?"

"The one I'm on, usually." Which made it doubly worse since his was nowhere to be found.

Sitting on a hay bale, Johnny found a pebble and turned it over in his hand, between his fingers, in, out, around, circling his thumb. Like the magician with his cards he saw in San Francisco one time. All dazzle and hands, hiding stuff.

"Scott, poker or roulette?"

He swiveled his head, raised his eyebrows in a tell that Johnny knew his brother thought showed innocence, but which was, really, an invitation to disaster. He'd seen it enough over a few cribbage boards.

"Poker. Better strategy, roulette only makes the house richer. Although the ones I've seen in St. Louis were rather exciting."

"There's nothin' like roulette to lose your cash. I'd have to go with poker."

Scott turned, still with that look on his face, almost gleaming in the light. Anticipation. Dios.

A breeze popped and he watched a piece of burlap caught on the fencing flap in place.

"First gun?"

Surprised, Johnny looked up, but Scott's eyes were shaded again, full of secrets. "Borrowed or owned?"

"Owned, definitely."

It was lying under the clouded glass countertop at the gunsmith's in Sonora. Big and fancy. The barrel was long, silver curlicues still shiny in a few places. The etched eagle on the handle was cracked, marred across its left wing.

"A Colt that once belonged to a soldado Mexicano. Had a mother-of-pearl butt…"

"Now who's being flashy?"

"…that fit into my hand, smooth as glass."

"My first was a Remington derringer." Scott smiled and reached down to flick few wisps of straw off the horse's fetlock. "With good intentions, my grandfather pushed it into my coat pocket when I left Boston for Camp Meigs. Too small to do any real damage, I lost it—and the coat—somewhere in Virginia."

The sun was lower on the horizon, splashing the valley with pinks and yellows. When you got a sky that pretty, someone was catching hell somewhere else. Johnny knew all about that.

Scott threw the brush into the bucket and ran a hand down the smooth coat of his horse. "How do you not know which pasture the herd is in? Murdoch told us at breakfast."

It seemed to amuse him and that got Johnny's back up a little. He wasn't lost. He just didn't feel like he knew where he was, and he'd ridden down enough rutted dirt trails to know the difference. He suddenly wanted to hear it from Scott. "Your first man?"

There were a few beats of silence and he felt his heart thumping in his ears. Maybe Scott was pretending like he didn't know what Johnny was talking about, but there'd been a twitch, his eyes had flicked to the side for one second.

"A Rebel soldier, not much older than me. Striking grey eyes."

"You were that close?"

"After. He died with them open."

Brown eyes. His man had run-of-the-mill, everyday brown eyes. There'd been a few vaqueros watching when he took the bullet, but no one helped. Then, partly because he'd been raised with the step-father he had, he couldn't walk away from something like that, so he'd finished the job with his Colt. And still no one came forward.

Scott's lips pulled downwards. He lifted his finger and gestured at the horizon. "Look at all that pink, there's a storm someplace." Then his brow furrowed. "I learned that along the way, but I can't seem to remember where."

Johnny felt the sky close around him. "Look, about…"

Scott picked up his bucket of brushes and combs, stifled a groan when straightening back up. Looking down at Johnny, his head cocked to one side in assessment. He appeared to have come to some sort of decision and splayed out his big hand.

"You're welcome," was all he said.

The End

1/2014


End file.
